The Last Letter
by big-fic-energy
Summary: What Peter Pettigrew would have liked to say. Just once.


In a dark house on a uneven, cobblestone alley, a hunched figure writes by the light of a single candle. The scratching of the quill reverberates because the shack, as it could more accurately be called, has high ceilings and was stripped of any carpet- or decoration- long ago.

One dusty window lets a single stream of moonlight shine onto the bare wooden floor. There's no furniture except a rickety old desk, where the hunched man is leaning over, attempting to write softly to minimize any squeaking sounds emitting from the desk. It's evident that he isn't supposed to be there. He's writing quickly and looks over his shoulder every minute. Finally, after seemingly hours of paranoia and feverish scrawls, he's finshed. He calls an owl as he steps out of the room and onto the front porch, which is in shambles.

The house was beautiful once. The man was full of life once. Now both are run-down. As the owl flies away, the man puts his head in his hands, stands silent for a moment, then walks away. The front porch's roof sags, resigned.

_Dear Harry,_

_Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I hadn't made certain choices. _

_I suppose everyone does. But did their bad choices have such irreversible consequences?_

_What do I have left? A silver hand? Regret? I don't even have a name. _

_I've manipulated children, sent my friend to prison, betrayed others until their deaths. _

_I wish I could talk to them, but I think that I'll get my chance soon when death comes for me. Not that my explanation could resolve anything._

_This time it will be deserved. This time death will be satiated, and some sort of balance can be restored to the universe. My life for theirs. _

_Unfortunately, I'm only one person. If I can even be counted as one. I think the operating factor for being part of the human race is possession of a soul. And I'm not sure I have one anymore. _

_I'm not filled with emotion- just regret. If I was a thousand people, it still wouldn't make up for the sins I've committed. _

_I loved your father and Sirius and Remus, and that's the only truth I can trust. And you can trust. If you choose to trust me. I was just never as strong as them. I couldn't even form my own damn opinions. I think that's the reason I sided with the Dark Lord in the first place. Because I always wanted to be on the side with the least trouble. I never thought about morally what the right decision was. And to be honest, I simply didn't care. I was selfish, and willing to do anything to escape pain. Even if it meant inflicting pain on the only ones who I felt any sort of affection for. The only ones who believed in me. _

_I know the last thing you want to hear is my words, so I won't waste your time with fond memories or anecdotes to try and manipulate you into feeling sorry for me. Because the last thing I want is pity. Not that you care what I want or that I deserve any favors, especially from you. But I think it's one that comes naturally. _

_I don't expect an answer, but sometimes I wonder: Do you hate me? I do. You and I both know the awful sins I've committed. The worst part is I don't know how else my life can go on. Death is simply the next course of action. It's just the only thing thay can happen. And that is a dangerous place to be- assuming you're the sort that wants to continue living. _

_I don't have any consolation to give you. Just a bad apology. It may not mean anything but I think if death comes to take me as soon as I think it will, I don't have much time. And I wanted to say something. Anything at all. Not to pardon. Maybe for closure. I've always been selfish and today I'm indulging one last self-serving whim. I'm writing to you to make myself feel better. If you're wondering, it isn't helping. _

_Godric knows if you'll ever read this. But if you do, I just want you to know that I regret. Everything. Every day I wake up and pray that I won't again. I want to die as much as you want me dead. And when I do, and the cosmic balance is restored, I pray that you'll never feel anything but peace for the rest of your life._

_Of course, you won't, because I took that from you. But you're strong, and I think if I had half of your strength, I wouldn't be in this Hell. Because that's what this is. Hell on Earth. It's not a place, but a prison of personhood. Knowing that I'll never be anyone else worthy of love is punishment enough. Hence the only conceivably logical step is for me to leave this world and you, alone. _

_Do you hate me? I think you should. _

_Peter Pettigrew_

The same owl that picked up the hastily witten letter from the frail man in the abandoned house flew until it reached its destination: the Weasley household. Harry Potter was sitting in the living room, staring at the fire, while everyone else slept soundly. He found it hard to relax, much less sleep.

His mind was always going a million miles a minute. Even though he was sitting in a big, comfy reclining chair, his fists were clenched around the worn red armrests, punishing the fabric. The owl softly let the letter slip through a cracked window and fall into Harry's lap, before flying away.

Picking up the letter, the boy examined the name on the letter, squinting to better see in the dim flicker of firelight. Suddenly, with an expression of recognition mixed with extreme disgust, he crumpled the paper in his fist, angry but unsure of what to do next. With a burst of energy, he whipped the offending paper into the waiting flames.

The irritated red-orange of the flame seemed to egg him on. He stared at the ash appearing for a moment and then stalked out of the room, deciding that trying to sleep didn't sound like such bad idea right now. Though on the inside, he knew he wouldn't get any.


End file.
